Breathing
by modernboys
Summary: Quick vignette about all the traits Seamus doesn't have and that all important one that he does. Seamus/Dean. Slash.


**Title: **Breathing  
**Genre:** Romance/Angst  
**Rating:** Mature  
**A/N: **From the word prompt 'breathing'.

* * *

There are a lot of things that don't come naturally to Seamus.

Like patience, for example. And though he'll deny it until he's blue in the face, because Seamus is absolutely convinced that there's not a single trait in the whole wide world that he doesn't possess, it'll never change the fact that he's almost gotten himself killed an uncountable amount of times by making suicide dashes across busy main roads instead of waiting for the traffic lights to change. And it won't remove all the dusty cobwebs from the bare cupboards in the kitchen of his flat. Or the Pot Noodle cartons and Chinese take away trays stuffed into the bin. Or the way that his mam comes and brings him his meals five times a week and twice on Sundays and Dean's made to prance around the place like a maid, because God forbid if Seamus was ever made to wait for the washer to finish its load or the toaster to finish its three minute timer, he'd more than likely blow the whole place to smithereens.

And then there's concentration. And his apparent lack of it. And the way that he can't possibly hold a single thought in his head for more than sixty seconds at a time. And how when he's working at the Auror office he's too busy charming co-worker's ties fluorescent pink and making Dean involuntarily take on the persona of Frosty the Snowman as he turns his cubicle into something very reminiscent of the North Pole. And how every time Miss Cavanaugh with the inflated boobs walks passed his desk he cranes his neck around the wall and watches the round curve of her arse wiggling beneath that skin tight, black pencil skirt he's come to love, as her fiery red high heels click away down the aisle. And he doesn't come colliding back down to reality until one of Dean's paper eagles terrorist bombs into the back of his skull.

And self restraint too. Because he can't possibly walk past a single pub on the street without going in and ordering a drink... or two... or three. And the way that he likes to blame it on his Irish blood, but still can't stop himself from checking out, and then inappropriately coming onto, any moderately attractive females that happen to be in the vicinity of said pub. And the way he spends every Friday and Saturday night - and sometimes more besides - in someone else's house and someone's else bed, interlocking hands against fake silk sheets that have started to all look and smell the same and he's completely and utterly unable to cage the animalistic instincts rising somewhere deeper than his gut, like a roused lion.

Then his lack of manners, as well. Because he always sneaks back home at half four in the morning with a bruised neck and lipstick marked collar and never thinks to leave behind a simple scrawled note or a phone number. And he always staggers in through the flat door reeking of a mixture of strong, fumigating perfume and his sweat and her sex and a million and one different types of sin. And replies only in snickers of profoundly dirty laughter when Dean emerges bleary eyed and half asleep from his room, clad only in boxers, scratching at his head and asking him what the hell he thinks he's bloody playing at, the early light of dawn creeping through the gap in the living room curtains and glinting gold across the deep, chestnut brown of his chest.

And then there's everything mashed into one and the way that Seamus can't stop himself from throwing his body drunkenly into Dean's and locking his arms around his neck, crushing their lips together. And the way that he can't concentrate on the how Dean's suddenly trying to struggle away in shocked earnest, because he's too busy urging a questing tongue between Dean's teeth and pressing his hips hard up against the toned, naked muscle of Dean's thigh. And one of his hands is slammed up against the back of Dean's head forcing him down and the other's digging deep into his dark and sturdy shoulder, leaving his only calling card in the form five red welts shaped like crescent moons. And then the way that he can't help but give Dean a rough, cold shouldered shove backwards when he finally decides he's had his fill and let's him go. Says nothing and staggers clumsily away to bed.

Because loving Dean...

Well.

That's as natural as breathing.


End file.
